


The Gift of the Guild-Magi

by BibliovoreOrc



Category: Magic: The Gathering (Card Game)
Genre: F/F, Fantasy, Pastiche, Ravnica (Magic: The Gathering)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 06:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23466514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BibliovoreOrc/pseuds/BibliovoreOrc
Summary: (With apologies to O. Henry.)
Kudos: 2





	The Gift of the Guild-Magi

(Art by Aaron Miller)

One zino and eighty-seven zibs. That was all. Zibs saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the greengrocer and the fungus man until even the Golgari thought her skint. Three times Della counted it. One zino and eighty-seven zibs. And the next day would be solstice.

They should have moved to Keyhole long ago, Della reflected bitterly, as she pocketed the coins with cold-numbed fingers. But pride had stayed her hand. She had loved their little flat in the Tenth, with the respectable address, and the balcony where they could sit out at nights, and watch the sun set over New Prahv. But the rent was too dear, and they needed every zib. Now their moldering apartment in the Keyhole stank of other people’s cooking, and the air itself made her eyes sting. But there was no cheaper place in the city. Not above ground, anyway.

One zino and eighty-seven zibs. Even that sum was a stolen indulgence. Every spare zib was owed to the Obzedat, who held her father’s spirit in thrall. His debts were substantial – they couldn’t be worked off in one lifetime. Even with Della and her two brothers making quarterly payments, they could barely keep pace with the interest.

Their father had been a good man – kind, and strong. His love for gambling was his only real weakness. But from that one weakness were born infinite sorrows, and, when the pontiff had appeared at his funeral, to enumerate the full extent of his liabilities, the balance had struck Della dumb. She’d made her way home in a daze, and, when Jem had come home from her rounds, Della had sunk to the ground at her feet, and – with tears in her eyes – had begged Jem to never lay a bet on the indriks. Jem had agreed, which was no small thing, and it was at her suggestion that Della and her brothers had taken it upon themselves to try to pay down the debt. Thus had begun their descent into poverty.

One zino and eighty-seven zibs. And the next day would be solstice.

Della snuffed out the candle, and descended the stairs.

On the street below it was dark – the night came early this time of year, and earlier still in the Keyhole. The air was bitter cold, and Della pulled her blue-and-white cloak tight around her for warmth. It was unwise to show Azorius colors at night – particularly in their neighborhood – but the only alternative was frostbite. Della had no gloves, and her overcoat had long since gone to the findbrokers. Her guildcloak was the last good cloth she possessed. She would take her chance with the Rakdos.

Della wove her way down to the docks, and from there on down to the Downs, where the merchants were closing-up shop. The crowds were thin, and the streets almost deserted – even the Dimir, it seemed, had gone home for solstice eve. In an out-of-the-way alley, reeking of stale fish and tallow grease, Della found the trader she’d come to seek. There the braided-chain girl – and she was just a girl, for her head barely rose past Della’s shoulder – had put up her shutters, but a lamplight still burned from inside.

Hesitantly, Della rapped her knuckles against the closed shutter. Then, cupping her hands together, she blew into them for warmth. Her fingers were numb with the cold.

The chainmaker pulled up her wooden shutter, then frowned when she saw Della’s cloak. “We don’t want no law-guildies here,” the girl said. “I’m paid-up with the locals. And everything I sell, I own.” And she would have rolled the shutter back down again, except that Della stuck her hand through the gap.

“Please,” Della said, “I’m not an arrester, and this isn’t a bust. I just want to buy something for solstice.”

“Oh, yeah?” the girl said, raising her eyebrow a fraction, and the shutter just a fraction more. “What is it then that you want?”

“A chain,” Della said. “A fine locket chain.”

“Oh, yeah?” the girl said. “Silver, or gold?”

“Neither,” Della said. “I need a red ribbon chain. A fine red ribbon, for a fine Boros locket.”

Again, the shopkeeper’s gaze drifted to Della’s blue-and-white cloak, and, again, the girl’s eyes narrowed.

“What makes you think I’d have something like that?” the girl said. “You want Boros kit, go to Gnat Alley.”

“Please,” Della said, “I know that you have one.”

The shopkeep paused then, for a very long time, until Della was sure she’d refuse. But then, with a sigh, the girl made up her mind, and produced a small box from beneath the counter.

“You’ll not ask me how I came by this,” the girl said, as she opened the lid, which bore a clenched fist, painted gold. And inside the box, on a white, satin pillow, lay a ribbon of darkest, pure red.

Della reached out, and her fingers touched silk – the exact ruby red of Jem’s lips. In Della’s mind’s eye, she pictured Jem’s locket, and saw it hanging proudly from this chain.

“You’ll not ask how I came by this,” the girl said again, as she pulled the box back, ever-so-slightly.

With a shake of her head, Della reached for her purse. “How much?” was what she asked instead.

“Ten zinos,” the girl said, with a glint in her eye. “I’ll do you a deal, on account of it’s solstice.”

Standing there in the cold, Della’s heart nearly froze, her fingers numb around her paltry few zibs. “Ten zinos?” was all she could stammer.

The girl nodded her head. “It’s worth twice as much. Like I said, I’ll do you a discount.”

“But I haven’t got ten zinos,” Della said. “I haven’t got two!”

“Then I’m afraid you also don’t have a deal.”

“That’s too much,” Della said, the wind burning her cheeks. “For a ribbon? That’s just much too much.”

“This is angel’s hair silk,” the girl said, her voice turning cross. “The genuine thing. Agrus Kos himself never had better.”

“But that’s still much too much,” Della said. “I’ve got one zino, eighty-seven zibs.” And she pulled up her cloak against the wind.

The girl was replacing the ribbon beneath her counter when Della’s motion gave her pause. “I tell you what – I’ll trade you,” she said.

“You’ll trade me?” Della said. “Trade me for what?”

“For that,” the girl said, and pointed to the cloak.

“But I can’t!” Della said, and clutched protectively at her silks. “I’m a third-level law scribe – I wear this to work!”

The girl shook her head. “All that’s as may be, but if you want this ribbon, then I want your cloak.”

“But what would you do with it?” Della said. “What use is it to you?”

“To me?” the girl said. “None at all. But I know plenty of folk as would pay good money for genuine, law-guildie silk.”

Now it was Della who paused. Even with her cloak, she was cold. And what she had said about her work was all true. But it was the image of Jem – of Jem wearing her locket, with a fine, silken ribbon – that won Della over in the end.

“You’ll not tell anyone how you came by this,” Della said, as she shrugged off her cloak – an easy enough gesture, even with frozen hands, since the silver brooch that once kept the cloak fastened had long since been sold.

“If anyone asks,” the girl said, “I’ll say an angel gave it to me,” and, taking the offered cloak, she handed Della the fine, silk ribbon.

Della put the ribbon in her pocket, then took it back out again, not daring to let it out of her grasp.

“Happy solstice,” she said, her teeth chattering.

“Happy solstice,” the girl said, putting the bartered cloak away, and, with a smirk, she slammed her shutter shut.

It was near-enough freezing as Della walked home – she had no cloak, and night air had got even chiller. Still, Della practically flew the whole way. She stopped in at the greengrocer, where she bought two fresh chops – although, chops from what, the Golgari butcher did not say. Then she stopped in at the mushroom man, where she bought some mold wine, and – in so doing – she parted with the last of her zibs. Della’s pockets were empty, as she climbed the streets home, but her heart and her hands were both filled.

That night in the Keyhole was black – not a hint of a moon – and a putrid scent wafted in from the docks. But Della hardly noticed, as she turned onto their block, and took the stairs to their garret two at a time. Once through the door, she placed her parcels on the table, and set to heating a pan for the chops. Della barely had the cookfire lit, when a key turned in the lock, and Jem came inside, her helmeted head bent low so as to not scrape the lintel.

“I’m home,” Jem said, and she sniffed the air as she took off her armor. “I didn’t know we had chops – did you go shopping? And is that mold wine? And where is your cloak – it’s freezing in here.”

The wojek looked confused, and doubtless would have said more, had Della not silenced her with a kiss.

“I have something for you,” Della said, presenting her treasure. “A new chain, to replace the one you lost.” Jem was standing stone-still, so Della placed the ribbon round her neck, and fastened the clasp in the back. “Where’s your locket?” Della said.

Jem’s mouth opened, then closed, only no sound came out. She did this once, and then twice, like a fish.

“Where’s your locket?” Della said. “I want to see it on you.” She looped her finger through the red ribbon, and gave a coy tug. “I want to see it hanging from this.”

Without a word in reply, the wojek reached in her pocket, and fished out a fine silver brooch.

“I sold it,” Jem said. “I sold the locket. I sold it to buy you this brooch for your cloak.”

For a long time, then, all Della could do was laugh. And, then, at long last, after the fit had finally passed, and after Jem had asked her for the fifth time what was so funny, Della just shook her head, and smiled a wan, threadbare smile, and motioned for Jem to sit down at the table.

“Jem,” Della said, “let’s put our presents away, and maybe just keep ‘em a while. Maybe they’re too nice for us just at present. Because – you see – I traded my cloak to buy you your chain.”

“Oh,” said Jem. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” said Della, and laughed again.

After a long, long time, Jem said: “The chops – where did you get those from?”

“I bought them with our last zino,” Della said.

“And the mold wine?”

“I bought that, too,” Della said. “With our last zib.”

From atop the stove, the fat in the frying pan sizzled.

“I suppose I’ll put the chops on,” Della said. “Anyway, finery is for guild-magi. People like us, we have each other, and I suppose that’s enough.”

“It is,” Jem said, and kissed her.

**Author's Note:**

> Magic: The Gathering is the property of Wizards of the Coast. This is a transformative work of fanfiction, protected in the United States under the laws of Fair Use.
> 
> "The Gift of the Magi," by O. Henry: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/7256/7256-h/7256-h.htm
> 
> All works copyright their respective creators.


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